


Foundations

by pomegrenadier



Series: Structural Integrity [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Indiana Jones!Vette, Male-Female Friendship, Past Abuse, Scars, Slavery, Torture, standard Star Warsy badness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vette and her Warrior, navigating the early days of their partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foundations

**Author's Note:**

> 10000% gen. Some dialogue taken directly from the game, but I've tried to put my own spin on things.

Vette is having a fracking fantastic time getting repeated shocks from Jailer Knash, who clearly has no appreciation for her mimicry skills. It's a little hard to think clearly through the pain, but she's pretty sure he's grumpier than usual today.

Then someone steps into the cell block, interrupting the ongoing fun. Newcomer's a human, dark and sharp-faced, reddish tattoos over his mouth and throat drawing attention to the scar there. Acolyte, not full Sith, since he doesn't seem to have a lightsaber on him. He carries himself like he's got more right to exist than anyone else in the room. Chances are, he really does. Gotta love the Empire.

His attention's mostly on Knash the humorless jerkass, but he glances at her and Vette stares right back. Granted, she's swaying on her feet and her neck still feels like it's slightly on fire, but she manages to keep her eyes uncrossed. An unreadable expression flickers over his features. It's not anger, and it's not disdain, that's all she can tell. Just . . . odd.

The humorless jerkass notices him around then. " _You._ I'm Jailer Knash. I run these cells and slave pits. You're the acolyte Overseer Tremel sent for the test, right? Hrmph. He thinks highly of you."

The odd look melts into vaguely irritated boredom. "Skip the pleasantries. I have a job to do," the acolyte says.

Knash _hrmphs_ again and shows off the other prisoners in the cell block: a captured would-be assassin, a failed Sith, and some poor forger who's been zapped even more than Vette has. The acolyte gives the assassin a job at Imperial Intelligence, kills the Sith in less than three seconds, and orders Knash to release the forger.

"What of the Twi'lek?" he asks.

_Uh-oh._

"Got caught trying to break into one of the tombs out in the Valley," Knash gravels. "Darth Baras mentioned he might find a use for her. But she's not part of the assignment, my lord. Unless you're taking a more personal interest in her, that is." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Vette's fingers curl into fists at her sides as her stomach twists in on itself.

"Spare us all your sordid insinuations," the acolyte says impatiently. "And if Darth Baras considers her a potential asset, you might want to avoid damaging her. His wrath would be most unpleasant."

"Hrmph. Noted," grunts Knash. "Well, you're an interesting one, kid. I can see why people are keeping tabs on you. Head back to Overseer Tremel, see what he thinks of your choices."

The acolyte bows, a little too deeply to be anything but mocking. "Of course."

And then it's just Vette and Knash and the other prisoners again, with the corpse of the Sith smoking gently on the floor.

**o.O.o**

For the next few days, Vette doesn't stop mouthing off at Knash, and Knash doesn't stop mashing buttons on the collar controller. Vette thinks he might've lowered the voltage a little, though. That, or she's just getting used to it.

The acolyte walks in again one afternoon as Knash finishes up his latest exercise in humorless jerkassery and Vette's lekku stop twitching. He comes to a halt just inside Knash's space, slightly too close. "Hello," he says. "Darth Baras sent me."

"Word is you might become his apprentice," Knash says, taking a step back and looking just a little nervous. "Nice work, if you can get it. So—I hear you'll be relieving me of this Twi'lek. Good riddance. She's a pain in the neck."

Vette snorts loudly. "Who's a pain in the neck? I'm the one wearing a shock collar."

Knash hits the button again. Her vision greys out for a few seconds as electricity crackles up and down her spine and the collar burns at the back of her neck—

" _Stop,_ " the acolyte snaps.

It stops. Vette breathes.

"Hrmph," says Knash. "Consider that a going-away present, Twi'lek. Seems you might be useful for something after all—this bruiser is taking you into the tomb where we caught you."

She straightens up with a stifled grunt, tilts her head at a cocky angle. She wants nothing more than to curl up and wait for her nerve endings to stop gibbering with residual pain, but she can't, _won't_ show it, not here. She's actually in decent shape this round, only shivering a little bit. "None of you can figure out how to activate the tomb statues to open the forbidden cavern, huh?" She looks at the acolyte. "You got some kind of business in there?"

"Yes, and I'd appreciate your help," he says.

Knash huffs. "Don't bother being pleasant, kid."

The acolyte rounds on him, blue eyes suddenly very, very cold. "You forget your place," he says softly.

". . . Apologies, my lord," Knash says. Then he brightens. "Here's the shock collar control. I'll set it to a higher level. Use it enough, she'll show you the back door to her mother's house."

"Ah, yes, because your torture regimen has proven marvelously effective so far," the acolyte drawls, pocketing the device.

Vette is about eighty-five percent sure that was sarcasm, not a critique of Knash's performance. The acolyte doesn't seem too sadistic. "I suppose I can play tomb tour guide," she says, like she's doing him a favor. "A lot of work went into cracking that nut, but I did it once—I can do it again." She pauses, then adds, "Just so we're clear, I'm officially on strike when it comes to domestic duties."

"I promise you, I won't require a maid," says the acolyte. Which brings up the burning question of what he _will_ require.

But for now, she's getting out of this cell. There'll be time to work out the details (and, y'know, escape) later. "Well, then," Vette says, "maybe things are looking up for me."

**o.O.o**

"So. I'm Vette. You got a name? Or should I just stick with _my lord_ or _hey you_?"

"Evren Straik, but _hey you_ will probably get my attention just as well. _My lord_ could mean anyone, here." And—whoa. That's a smile. It's small and lopsided but definitely there.

If Vette managed to get stuck with the one person on Korriban whose sense of humor doesn't always involve inflicting agonizing pain, this whole mess might not be as catastrophically awful as she'd expected it to be. It's still bad, no question, what with the shock collar and the planet crawling with Sith wannabes, but—less bad. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Are you proficient with any weapons? Blasters, vibroblades . . .?" he asks, out of nowhere.

Vette looks at him sideways, unsure where he's going with this. "Yeah," she says. "Blasters."

Straik nods as they step out of the Academy's hulking shadow, the Valley of the Dark Lords sprawled out before them, dry and cracked as a scab. "Good."

Five minutes later, she's the proud owner of two shiny new Balmorran Arms pistols, and the quartermaster for the troops stationed near the Academy is a few hundred credits richer. Hooray for bribery. Vette checks the weapons over, judges them acceptable, and straps the holsters to either hip. She keeps an eye on Straik, though. He seems more concerned with fiddling with his comlink than paying attention to the fact that she is now armed.

Vette clears her throat. "Uh . . . you do realize I could just shoot you, right?"

"You could," he says agreeably.

"And you're fine with that."

"With the possibility of being shot in the back? Nothing new. And you need some way to defend yourself, if we are to survive Naga Sadow's tomb."

". . . Right," says Vette.

"One more thing." Straik pulls out the shock collar controller; Vette tenses, bracing for the inevitable blast of electricity. But he just holds it out to her, like he's handing over a piece of cutlery or something.

Vette hesitates to take it, though. She's had hope dangled in front of her like this before, and it always, always gets snatched away at the last second. Usually accompanied by extra punishment.

Then he tosses the controller to her.

Vette catches it reflexively and kind of gapes for a second or two, because— _what?_ What is his game?

"Unfortunately, the collar itself will probably have to stay, at least until you're off Korriban," he's saying. "Free non-humans draw a great deal of attention here. Apparent slaves do not."

"You are one weird Sith," Vette says.

"Not quite Sith yet," says Straik, "but with your help, I might manage it."

Okay. _Okay._ She can work with this. She thinks he might have just obliquely offered her freedom, and that's—well, that's very _something._ Hell if she knows what, exactly. But if he's serious . . . Vette doesn't want to get her hopes up, _but._

Screw it. "All right," she says briskly, pocketing the controller and dusting off her hands. "Let's go tomb raiding."

**o.O.o**

She's almost done unlocking the chamber doors when there's a a sharp noise behind her—Vette whirls around, right hand dropping to her blaster. Straik appears to have kicked a guy in the face. Okay. Great.

The guy in question's another human, scrawny and pale. He leaps back to his feet. "Take your time, slave. Just have the entrance uncovered by the time I finish killing your new master," he says.

Straik sighs. "Oh, good. I was beginning to worry you'd miss the party, Vemrin."

What a name, though. Vemrin glares at him. "My passions run deeper than yours, you arrogant, entitled milksop. I have struggled and fought for every scrap of my power, while yours was handed to you from on high. And I am the stronger for it. My legacy has suffered enough. I am the true essence of what it is to be Sith, but you—you are nothing! After today, you will be forgotten—"

"Fine speech, but it loses impact due to its length. _Brevity,_ Vemrin. Brevity is your friend."

Vemrin snarls, draws his warblade, and lunges to attack.

The next few seconds are a confused mess of chiaroscuro sparks and shadows. Vette hangs back and lets the acolytes have at it—no way is she firing into melee when she can't tell who's where. In the end, one of the combatants' blades goes flying off into the gloom, and a body hits the ground, a gaping hole punched through its chest.

The victor lowers his bloodied sword and turns to her. She lets out a breath. "Wow. Nice work," she says, more out of relief than because it was particularly fun to watch Straik kill someone.

"Glad I could impress you," he says, sounding tired.

Time to _not think_ about things. Vette plasters on a confident smirk and says, "The secret entrance is right here." She hunts around the intricate carvings on the wall behind her until she finds the last switch. Pressing it, she stands back, hands on her hips, as ancient mechanisms begin to rumble. The twin statues of hunched slaves scrape around to face each other. The central panel slides downward; the left and right slabs of stone grind into recesses in the surrounding wall. Beyond, the eerie bluish glow of the torches illuminates yet another tunnel, leading deeper and deeper into the dark.

Vette quirks an eyebrow. "Uh . . . you're welcome?" she prompts.

Straik shakes his head as if to clear it, then smiles at her. "Most impressive. Thank you, Vette."

"Nice to be acknowledged," she says. She wants to believe he's a halfway decent person. She's pretty sure he is. Or that could be desperation talking, a need to connect to someone not-evil after way, way too long in a cell. Straik— _Evren_ , though . . . He gave her weapons, he handed over her leash, he's been nothing but polite to her, and it _does not scan._

She'll go with it, for now. Operate under the assumption he's not playing her. If he is, she's still armed. If he isn't, so much the better. "But anyway," Vette says, refocusing. "We going in there or what?"

"And so the glorified scavenger hunt continues," he mutters.

"What's all this supposed to prove, exactly?"

"That I can do the unpleasant legwork Darth Baras can't be arsed to bother with, and thus that I am worthy of apprenticeship."

Vette chuckles. "Better get moving, then."

**o.O.o**

"WAIT!" Vette shrieks.

Evren freezes. "What?" he says warily.

"Don't just blow the lid off the sarcophagus, you brainless schutta, you'll damage it and possibly whatever's inside and if it's booby-trapped then you'll be completely screwed!" She takes the steps three at a time to join him at the top. "Let me check first. You would not _believe_ the security people put in their sarcophagi to keep graverobbers out."

"I take it you have experience in this area."

Vette crouches to peer at the runes gouged into the stonework. "Yeah. Treasure hunting can get pretty exciting. Especially when it involves ancient Force users with anger-management issues."

"You are a treasure hunter?"

"Among other things, yep. Ooh, will you look at that, a poison dart trigger. How cute. Wouldn't you be sorry if I wasn't around to disable it."

"I have done this before, you know," Evren says, affronted.

"And you probably just brute-forced your way through everything, and that's _fine_ , it's just that this way is _better_ because it doesn't involve _poison darts in the face!_ "

". . . Point taken."

She disables the darts in less than a minute. All too easy. Seriously—it's too easy. Naga Sadow was a bigshot Sith Lord. His followers went to a lot of trouble to hide his resting place. On the one hand, it's possible that their main layer of security was the secret chamber itself. But on the other . . . She might not be a precognitive Force-sensitive, but her instincts are good, and right now they are screaming _trap._

Thing is, she can't find anything else. The sarcophagus, the platform, the floor tiles, the way the walls are structured, everything seems fine. She's seen ridiculous traps in places like this before, everything from snake pits to boulders rolling out of nowhere to crush unfortunate archaeologists flat, but . . . Maybe she's just being paranoid? Vette draws one of her blasters—it makes her feel a little better—and nods to Evren. "Go for it. Gently."

He raises a hand and lifts the sarcophagus lid with the Force, setting it edge-down on the ground behind the box itself. He looks inside. "I've had my doubts about Imperial design," he says idly, "but this makes modern excesses look tame."

Vette eyes the skeletal remains of Naga Sadow and can't help but agree. "How can you even fight in that? Unless you can't. I mean. He is dead, after all."

"Who needs peripheral vision when you have fancy hats?" Evren says, waving his hand again. A metal cylinder leaps into his palm—the lightsaber they're after. He thumbs the activator, and a beam of bright red light burns through the gloom, its glow staining everything bloody.

A flicker out of the corner of her eye—she whips around to follow it, but it's gone. "Um, Evren . . .?"

"I suspect the poison darts may have been a distraction," he says.

"No, _surely_ not," Vette mutters.

One of the statues lining the lower chamber shatters, sharp chunks of stone flying everywhere, grey mist pouring out to crawl over the ground. Then another statue goes, and another, and another, until the path to the door is almost entirely obscured. Vette draws her other blaster. Dark figures move and shift in the cloud, and the air temperature plummets until she can see her breath. Frozen terror oozes through her veins. Fear of death, of darkness, of the things that lurk just out of sight—

"Aw, crap, it's Talravin all over again," Vette grumbles.

Evren laughs. He draws the warblade in his off hand, crouches, and kicks off into the mist, flipping midair to bring both blades scything down on the first of the shadowy apparitions.

The cloud roils. The shadows seethe. Most of them concentrate on trying to slash Evren to pieces with eerily silent not-lightsabers— _good luck with that, suckers, you're a couple thousand years out of practice_ , Vette thinks—but a few notice the barrage of blasterfire she's peppering them with, and start gliding up the steps towards her, waves of cold and dread billowing off them.

Headshots don't work on ghosts, though Risha and her dad would probably be proud of her for landing so many. Seems like the only way to get the damn things to discorporate is to blast them enough times that they just give up and go _poof_. Vette obliges with another salvo that burns through the apparitions like paint stripper through ugly artwork. (That earned her the most crushing _I am very disappointed in you_ speech she's ever received, though Risha thought it was hilarious.)

One of the ghosts has managed to creep up on her flank. Vette catches sight of it out of the corner of her eye and skitters backwards until her leg bumps into the sarcophagus, firing all the way. Way too close; she needs to get a little distance . . . She leaps onto the edge of the boxy structure as the apparition chops at where her legs used to be, snaps a foot out in a vicious stomp-kick that nails the thing in the chin area—corporeal, apparently, good to know—and unloads her last few blaster charges into the wavering dark mass while it's still recovering.

"Just _die_ already!" she shouts, and gives it another kick for good measure.

It poofs.

A furious, voice-shredding scream, a final arc of red light, and the last of the ghosts on the lower level dissolves into black mist and vanishes. The mists curl and coil as they dissipate. Nothing left of the ghosts but echoes.

Evren just stands there, breathing hard, the air around him all twisty and wrong.

Vette inches down the steps and holsters her blasters. "We good?" she says cautiously.

The wrongness simmers down after a few seconds. Something Force-related, she'd guess. Evren deactivates warblade and lightsaber and sheathes them both. "We're good," he rasps. He closes his eyes for a second, rakes a hand through his hair. "Most people would have been overwhelmed by the power of those ghosts," he says. "Your mind is very strong."

"Eh, I'm just stubborn," she says, shifting her weight.

He shoots her a sideways look, but after a moment he just says, "Baras will be waiting."

"Wouldn't want to keep him in suspense. Bet he'd be real torn up if we bit it down here."

"The poor man might lose the will to live," Evren says, all saccharine concern, and Vette snickers as they pick their way out of the tomb, back into the relentless Korriban daylight.

**o.O.o**


End file.
